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by roselightsaber



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016), Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Chaptered, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-22
Updated: 2016-12-22
Packaged: 2018-09-11 06:06:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8960086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roselightsaber/pseuds/roselightsaber
Summary: Jedha's supply of kyber crystal is at last drawing attention to their distant corner of the galaxy. Baze and Chirrut are committed guardians, but they have never before come up against a threat like that of the newly-formed Galactic Empire.





	

Once, no more than a handful of small, carefully hand-cut kyber stones left the world at a time. Often Jedi and their Padawans came in person to select gems. Chirrut fought for the chance to pick an array of stones to show them, polished each piece personally and displayed them artfully in a little wooden box that he’d bring out to the visiting Master, beaming with pride. Baze would mostly just watch, more skeptical with each visit, ready and waiting to step all over Chirrut’s cheer by asking why Jedi never stayed to protect the temple, why more and more often they simply took a supply for some anonymous group of trainees and left them behind forever, or worse, just sent ever more impatient and threatening messengers.  


“They don’t care about this place,” Baze snarled. Derision was lately his favorite imperfect mask to cover the sorrow he felt watching Chirrut bring his precious stones back into storage. That day he’d brought out something special. Baze couldn’t feel the difference between the gems like Chirrut could, but he trusted his friend when he said such things, and it didn’t take any kind of mysticism to see the heartbreak written on his face when the messenger waved him away without a thought–not a Jedi, but some sort of military envoy that had Baze’s hand on his weapon and his teeth on edge the whole time he was present. He approached the temple elder as if she were a fortune teller on the street, no respect, making demands. And Baze couldn’t begin to guess why anyone would need kyber in the amounts he was talking about in the first place.  


Perhaps naively, or perhaps just out of his usual fretfulness for Chirrut, he didn’t stick around to find out anything more, instead following the other back into the temple, returning his carefully chosen stones to their usual resting place. “Why do you bother?” Baze asked harshly. “He’s not here for your pebbles. He’s practically asking for strip mining.”

“I’m not a Jedi. This is what I’m good at. It’s part of protecting this place.”  


“You fight like a Jedi. You’d be better than them if they bothered to–”  


“Somehow I doubt a Jedi seeks to be _better_  than his fellow knights.”  


“They don’t even know we’re here until they need something. If this temple needs protecting, why don’t they stay more than a week at a time?”  


“You’re so _angry_.” Chirrut closed his dark eyes tightly, pained. “It hurts. Stop it.”  


But Baze didn’t so much as slow down. “That man out there is no Jedi. The Republic is falling apart, and something else is coming. I know you feel it. The Jedi are going to wait until this place is leveled, then come pick out the kyber from around our corpses!”

“I know that, Baze!” He snapped so suddenly that the other was actually surprised. He stumbled back at step and wondered, briefly, if the push he’d felt was real or imagined. “And I’ll die knowing I did what I could.”  


* * *

When the Empire arrived at last, there was almost a sense of relief among the Guardians of the Whills–Baze, at least, and those who had a similar penchant for fighting. It had been a long time coming, years of knowing that soon, some faction of the increasingly unstable galaxy would realize that the forgotten moon held a valuable treasure. Chirrut was a skilled warrior too, as were all of the guardians, but he took up arms only as a last resort. There had been moments of necessity–looting was on the rise, and black market kyber was a highly profitable product, and thus a potential ticket off the isolated, increasingly dangerous moon of Jedha. Baze had seen Chirrut chase down five bandits all on his own to retrieve a single stolen crystal, staff swinging wildly. He was a master of the nonlethal strike, something Baze had never put much stock into–but then again, he couldn’t remember ever seeing someone come back for more after facing down Chirrut Imwe.  


Until the stormtroopers arrived.

Occupation came in slow, swelling waves. First a few troops in Jedha city–peacekeepers, they were assured, there to maintain order on the lawless world. But Baze and Chirrut both knew what was happening at the first sight of gleaming white armor. “We’re going to need something better than quarterstaffs,” Baze murmured, pressed close against Chirrut’s back. The hidden lookout was small, but there was no doubt it was a charmingly overprotective gesture (and probably a comfort to Baze as well); even in this dark moment it warms Chirrut through, body and soul. His blood ran cold again, though, as Baze continued. “You can’t just knock them out and hope for the best, you know.”

Chirrut swallowed. “I know.”

“I’ll teach you to shoot,” Baze offered. Chirrut nodded and did them both the favor of not mentioning the fear that coated his words.  


* * *

They trained together, prepared together. Baze taught Chirrut to shoot–even if it meant he had to dig an antique lightbow out of the armory and spend days and night fixing it up. He was still afraid it wouldn’t be enough when he gave it to him. “Be safe,” He grumbled gruffly as he handed it over. Chirrut smiled back at him as if it were a declaration of love.

The first time Chirrut had to use the bow was not against a stormtrooper at all, but something–someone–entirely different from the looters they’ve encountered before. Baze couldn’t even be sure of the man’s species; he was wrapped in robes, hooded beyond recognition, but he was speaking in Basic. Shouting, in fact, as he practically charged a temple elder at the easternmost doorway. “You have become a pawn of the Empire!” He screamed. “The Jedi are lost. You serve no further purpose!”

The elder stepped forward, a hand on his staff though still attempting to maintain an aura of peace. “We are on the same side, friend,” The elder replied. Baze and Chirrut exchanged glances from their respective corners of the temple portico, and Chirrut’s look of alarm instantly told Baze that danger was even more imminent than he thought. “We only seek to maintain the purity of this holy place.”

“They’re coming,” The lone man stated ominously, producing a thermal detonator from within the folds of his cloak. “If you will not fight with us, we will take the temple.”  


Baze saw Chirrut take aim. He never felt the Force much, and he wasn’t sure if the senses he felt from Chirrut were mystical or if they were the result of having become each other’s sole lifeline over so many years together, but one way or another he felt the heaviness in his partner’s heart.

“If you want to protect the temple,” The elder replied with more patience, more calm than Baze ever had in his life, though he stepped forward again and shifted his staff with the clear intent to fight if needed. “Stand _with_  us. We could use fighters. We are not your enemy.”  


“You supply kyber to the Empire.” The mysterious figure activated the thermal detonator with a click. “You are the enemy of the galaxy.”  


He was too far away, but Baze was somehow sure he heard Chirrut’s breath catch in his throat. Everything else happened too fast to hear anything at all. Chirrut took the shot, a precision hit to the man’s arm that caused him to drop the grenade, and probably to lose the arm altogether, but not fatal. _That fool_ , Baze shouted inwardly. This maniac had no intention of leaving them alive, why grant him such luxury? Another guardian snagged the elder and dragged him backward in a whirlwind of reflexes; Baze took the fatal shot that Chirrut should have, _that idiot_ , and Chirrut–

 _No. No, no, no._ Chirrut was going for the active detonator as it rolled perilously close to the temple. “What are you doing?!” Baze shouted desperately. He ran towards him as fast as he could, reached out to him–

He remembered nothing else until his eyes finally opened again, a minute or two that felt like a lifetime. The blast must have been huge; he was far from where he’d chased Chirrut–

 _Chirrut_.

Forgetting all else, he ran towards where the other man had been just out of reach, that man who was too kind and too brave and too willing to throw himself between the temple and any threat at all. And there he was, lying broken on the ground, albeit not as shattered as the temple wall behind him. There was a sickening feeling of relief at seeing part of the temple–their home–collapsed. If it had been struck so directly by the blast, that meant that stupid, brave Chirrut hadn’t gotten his hands on the device; he’d been close enough to be brutally struck by the explosion but maybe, _maybe_  he wasn’t–

Baze couldn’t even finish the thought, rushing to the other’s side, screaming his name, completely incomprehensible in his panic, completely unaware of anything else around him. “Please,” He murmured to he-wasn’t-sure-who. “Please don’t take him.” But the blood streaming down Chirrut’s face had him fully convinced that he’d already been taken; he’d been flung so violently from the explosion, and bacta–hell, any proper medical care–was a rarity on Jedha.

But at last, a beacon of hope: “Baze…” His voice was so small, so shaky, but it was there. Alive.

“Chirrut. It’s okay. It’s going to be okay.”  


He didn’t open his eyes, seemed to be reaching desperately for each breath, but he clung to him, _alive_ , his weak voice struggling to reach Baze’s ears. “Listen, Baze.”

“I’m listening, I’m listening.” Of course, he could barely hear, either, and Baze might have begun to wonder how injured he was himself in that moment if not for Chirrut’s fragile state.  


“It’s a false flag. Tell them.”  


“We have to get you to medical–”  


“ _Listen_   _to me._  Tell them it’s the Empire. We cannot be–” He let out a wheezing cough that had Baze clutching him desperately all over again, praying _don’t go, don’t go, don’t go_ , maybe out loud though he wasn’t even sure himself. “Don’t let them splinter us. I know. I _know_  it was them.”  


“I’ll tell them.”  


Baze’s memories ended there, picked up some time later, groggy in the meager medical bay of the temple. It wasn’t much–was barely anything at all–but it was still better than trying to go into the city. When he could finally sit up, he looks around and assesses the blurry memory of all that transpired. He wasn’t alone in the room. Medical staff–really his fellow Guardians with extra training–hustled urgently between six or seven beds. Himself, the other Guardian who’d pushed their elder out of harms way, a third who must have joined in the fight in the black spots in Baze’s memory. The rest, injured inside the temple collapse. And, unseen at first behind the desperate crowd of medical staff, was Chirrut.

He was cleaned up, at least, but it was still clear that things were bad. It took a few tries to get up and go to him–he was sure he had internal injuries from the blast, but he could nurse those later, once he was sure he had any reason to get better. Staff didn’t stop him, didn’t even try. One woman took his arm and helped him over to Chirrut’s side, her voice sounding oddly distant and hollow even right next to Baze’s ear. “Supplies are so low, Brother. We’ve done everything we can. We can only trust the will of the Force now.”

That appeared to trigger something in his mind, and he turned to her urgently. “Go to the High Elders. Tell them this was an Imperial operative.” He clutched her hand suddenly. “Tell them Chirrut Imwe said it was an Imperial operative. They’re trying to divide us.”

Panic took over her face only a moment before she was off to deliver the message, leaving Baze to kneel weakly at Chirrut’s side. The other was bruised, one arm broken at least (it was a mystery for the moment whether it was simply the one worst off, the one that most needed the last remaining splint). They’d found some bacta–not nearly enough–for the blow he’d sustained on the back of his head. His breathing was uneven and he looked to Baze like a broken doll. But–that stupid, brave, miraculous bastard–at last reached over toward Baze with his unbandaged hand.

“Chirrut,” He whispered, taking his hand. “I told them.”  


“Stop it,” The other growled, voice hoarse, much to Baze’s surprise. “Stop talking like I’m going to die.”  


Baze held that hand like it was the only thing keeping him on the planet, squeezing his eyes shut against hot tears. “I thought you already had, you idiot.”

“All is as the Force will it. And the Force knows I am not done fighting.”  


For the first time, Baze believes it.


End file.
